


The Book of Aoife

by ahimsabitches



Category: Hellbenders (2012)
Genre: F/M, Irish accents, hellbound saints, lots of sin, lots of swearing, so much sin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 13:49:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7535206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahimsabitches/pseuds/ahimsabitches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm shocked there isn't a fan presence for Hellbenders on this site, but there you go. I'm taken with this movie. My favorite character, Angus, is played by one of my cranky old man crushes, Clancy Brown. So I made an OC for him. Because of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Book of Aoife

Angus trudged into the kitchen, squinting through the early afternoon light streaming into the house in diagonal golden bars. There was _noise_ happening in the living room, and he didn’t fucking like it.

Liked it less when he managed to blink the bleary hangover out of his eyes long enough to see that it had nothing _whatsoever_ to do with sinning.

“Muhfuggin cocksucker,” he grunted to himself and reached into the fridge for a beer. The thick clink of the glass pierced his head with a needle of pain.

The new bitch, Aoife, had the rest of the guys in a fucking kumbaya circle on the couches with her goddamned hippie guitar on her knees. From day one, she’d been a fucking pain in his ass. It was one thing to be a fucking cocksucker in the line of work, but this order had fucking _rules,_ and whatever the fuck they did over in Boston wouldn’t fly here.

“Unless you’re planning to sodomize Macon with that guitar, put it the _fuck_ away or I’ll break it over your ass,” he said, the words falling from his mouth in a slaggy slur.

Aoife, her back to him, dropped her hands from the guitar and the notes from her voice, and flipped her middle finger up at him without turning. “As they entered the hovel, they saw an old man dressed in a cumstained robe sitting on the right side, and they were alarmed. ‘Be ye not alarmed,’ he said. ‘Ye’re lookin’ fer Angus the Hellbound, who was beshitted. He hath _risen_!’” She shouted, drilling more pain into his head and making him squint and dribble his beer.

Fucking _cunt._ He imagined her soft white neck in the hand not holding the bottle, and it closed into a fist.

“What was that? Psalms?” Eric asked.

“Book o’ Aoife, chapter six, verses six and six,” she said, and nodded at Stephen. “Blasphemy.”

“Blasphemy,” he said, and headed toward the ledger.

“See? Plenty of sinnin’ here,” Aoife said and did turn now, a grin lighting up her face, which Angus had thought quite fuckable at first: Irish-green eyes, a spray of freckles across her nose and cheeks, nice thick blowjob lips. She was a bit snaggletoothed, but wasn’t that the fucking stereotype anyway?

“ _Candyass_ sinning,” Angus spat, both entirely too hung over to have this argument and entirely too pissed at her to not. “Get the fuck off your asses and do some _quality_ sinning. Ferfuckssake, you cocksuckers’ve done nothing but sit around in that goddamn hippie drum circle since that _bitch_ got here.” He waved the beer bottle at Aoife, who gazed at him over the back of the couch with that perpetual _maddening_ smile.

“We _could_ use a pair of bongos, come to think of it,” Elizabeth said. Aoife winked and blew her a kiss.

“Am I the _only_ one ‘a you _cocksuckers_ who gives a _shit_ about this job? What the fuck did any of _you_ do last night?”

There was a pause. They cast furtive glances at each other.

“I ate a lobster,” Stephen offered as he thumped the ledger closed. “And I’m currently mixing my fabrics. Cotton and polyester.”

Aoife raised her beer at Stephen. “Ye’re the pinnacle of sin to which we all aspire, Steve-O.”

“Fuckin’ useless shitstains,” Angus growled in between chugs of beer. It drizzled down his chin and dribbled onto his bare chest. “Nunnayou’re damnation ready! What the fuck’re you gonna do when we get a call? I’m not gonna go out n’ be your fuckin’ momma all the fuckin’ time.”

“Oh, blow it out yer arse, ye hamfisted cocksplat,” Aoife snapped. “If ye don’ want t’be our mum out there, stop henpeckin’ us here ‘n concentrate on keepin’ yer own ancient flappy pecker up.”

The silence spun out, grew heavy and hairy. Everyone but Aoife kept their eyes studiously _not_ on Angus.

Things hadn’t been pie in the fucking sky before the Boston parish dumped this paddy bitch on them, but now that she _was_ here, she and her fucking childish horseshit were infesting the place and putting them _all_ at risk.

Rage slid hot and slow down his spine and pooled right under his stomach in a thick puddle of lava. He wanted to squeeze her fucking throat shut and watch her wide, wild eyes beg him to stop. He wanted to bend her over the arm of the couch and raw her cute little ass until she bled. He wanted to hold her down, slap that fucking smile off her goddamn face, twist those perky little tits until they turned purple, stripe her with his bullwhip until she screamed herself hoarse, cut crosses into her flesh with his switchblade and hear her _squeal_ , he wanted to, _god,_ he wanted to…

“I don’t know what kind of fucking new age hippie _shit_ they were pulling in Boston, but I got news for you, cocksucking bitch,” Angus said, anger lending him strength and sobriety as he strode into the living room. “This ain’t the Augustine Interfaith Order of Thumbsucking and Handholding, and I’m sicka your self-righteous impotent teenage rebellion bullshit. It ain’t gonna fuckin’ fly here. Stop fuckin’ acting like a truculent _child_ and do your fucking _job_ and I’ll stop treating you like the fuckin’ pissant _baby_ you are!”

Yelling hurt his head, which thudded and spun. Hurt his throat, which was raw and felt caked with sewershit. Hurt, and it was _her_ fault. He wanted to slap her; he wanted to knock out a few teeth; he _wanted_ to…

The smile was gone from Aoife’s eyes, which darkened with rage of her own. Without taking her eyes from his, she rose from the couch, laid the guitar gently where she’d been sitting, and stepped close to him. The effect was laughable; someone almost a foot and a half shorter than him and who knew how much lighter trying to square up against him? Was this bitch for real? Her nose _was_ a little bent; she wouldn’t be a Hellbound saint if she hadn’t been in at least a few fights. He hadn’t read her file but he hadn’t needed to. Everything he needed to know about her was written in the curl of her lip, the cant of her hips, the set of her shoulders. She was a scrappy, jumped-up little cunt who thought a childhood of pissant misdemeanors had filled her sin quota for-evermore-amen and the label Hellbound was a suit of armor with which she could charge into any exorcism scot-fucking-free. He’d seen the type. He’d seen them fail. Often in spectacular bloody fucking fashion. Once, it had almost undone them all.

Angus wasn’t about to let that happen ever fucking again.

“Have I fucked up an exorcism since I’ve been here? Have I gotten anyone hurt that didn’t deserve it or ask fer it? Have I been _anythin’_ but a model fucking _saint_ , y’ prune-faced jizztrumpet _?_ If ye’d ever been arsed to look at the ledger or me reports, ye’d see that. Assuming ye can even fucking _read,_ y’great bloviating shitgibbon _._ ” She jabbed a finger in his face, a precious inch from his nose. “Don’t y’ _dare_ think that y’ can do yer job any better than I can do mine just because ye’ve been doing it longer.”

The problem was, that was _exactly_ what he thought and that was _exactly_ the truth. His heart galloped in his chest and made his head thud nauseatingly, and, in a shock that was merely perfunctory at this point, made his cock harden. He wanted to hear her gasping for breath, he wanted to feel her nails plowing bloody harrows on his back, he wanted to sink his teeth into the soft heaving flesh of her tit, oh, he _wanted to…_

His fists curled and it took more willpower than he thought he possessed to keep a full-force haymaker from knocking her flat. He was hung the fuck over and she was not; he had no doubt he would win if it came to blows, but the amount of pain he’d endure from thudding head and aching joints and cramped heart wouldn’t be worth simple wrath, and he doubted her rage came with horniness. But oh _God_ he _wanted…_

He gritted his teeth, stared her down. Even flat and blank with rage, her face was still pretty, even prettier when her hair was down, as it was now. Greasy and unwashed, it was still maddeningly _grabbable,_ in a red-gold color for which he had a memory-image that, imprinted while monstrously high on he’d forgotten what, was both potent and fitting: the long wall-shadow cast by blood smeared on an old lampshade.

“Listen, you cocksucking twat, I don’t give a shart in a jet turbine what your hangups are or how many times Daddy beat you when you were a kid. The fact of the fucking matter is that there are demons out there just _waiting_ to chew through the throats of innocents to get their shot at fame and glory and apocalypse, and when everything else goes tits-up, they call us. We are the _last resort._ We _do not go tits-up._ We are God’s _oh-shit_ button, and _sweetheart,_ the oh-shit button _never fails._ ”

And then the smile was back. It widened into a quiet chuckle which made a slippery-cold eel slide down his spine despite himself. Because for the first time, neither the smile nor the laugh was in her eyes. One eyebrow arched, and she looked positively _evil_. He didn’t know whether he liked that or not. “You want more sin? I can sin right _now_ if ye’ve a mind. I know y’want t’ hit me. And fuck me. I saw it in yer eyes the instant I stepped into this shitehole.” She opened her arms. “So? Hit me. Fuck me. _Take_ me.” She stepped close, nudged his hard cock against her hip. Her eyes burned green like St. Elmo’s Fire.

“Hey, come on, I asked her first!” Eric said from the couch.

Aoife was spoiling for a fight. He knew the instant he touched her she would fucking _snap_ and trap him in a whirlwind of fists and feet and nails and teeth and screaming woman-rage and god _dammit_ he was too hung over to _deal with her properly._ Nausea was an insistent pressure in the middle of his skull and the sickly thudding headache seemed to pound through the rest of him with every unsteady kick of his heart. While he wouldn’t think twice about puking on her, he wanted her in bed with him as sober as he got and her _not_ a barely-restrained knot of dick-slicing fury. But he _wanted._ His hands twitched.

Before he could say or do anything, she glanced over his shoulder at something, and her face changed. Rage smoothed quickly into something like alarm, then kaleidoscoped through trepidation and resignation to wary acceptance. Her eyes flicked back to Angus. The phone rang.  She spun on her heel and snatched it.

Angus looked over his shoulder, feeling the tendons in his neck creak like old doors. Nothing. Weird.


End file.
